


Impossible Aches

by Abyssinia



Category: Stargate Atlantis Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-17
Updated: 2007-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssinia/pseuds/Abyssinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When she last saw him, he hadn't really been there and she'd lost Atlantis then too, never really had it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible Aches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IV

The glass he puts in her hand is cold, condensation forming on the outside to drip over her fingers. Elizabeth stares into his eyes before tossing it back, feeling the strong Athosian liquor burn its way down her throat.

General O'Neill settles on top of her trunk -- stuffed full of nearly everything she plans to take back to Earth. His hands are empty and Elizabeth remembers Daniel telling her that Jack rarely drinks anything but beer.

There are hints of Sheppard in the older soldier across from her, a similar wariness, a reticence, a promise of danger emanating from beneath his skin. When she last saw him, he hadn't really been there and she'd lost Atlantis then too, never really had it. Even as the alcohol heats her blood, she feels cold and trapped, and she stands, escaping out the door to her balcony where she can look over the ocean, breathe in the salty alien air of a home she might never see again.

He leaves her alone for five minutes and then comes out, standing close behind her and reaching around to cover each of her hands. She doesn't relax her grip on the railing. There are calluses on his fingertips and palms, rough against her hand, and she can see tiny scars across his knuckles, slightly whiter than the tanned skin. Faint, longer scars reach to where his sleeves hit mid-forearm. It makes her think of grad school -- a soldier's memoir assigned for a seminar and a passage about the deep wounds hurting more after they've become scars, about the wounds that leave no scars.

Reading it then, safe in her ivory academic tower, she thought she understood.

But now, in her tower of metal and glass, her tower which has been fought for, which has seen blood spilled, she finally understands.

"This is our home," she whispers, because she cannot scream it at the Ancients claiming the corridors below her, because every member of her team is leaving behind part of their being when they step through the 'gate tomorrow.

Jack's fingers tighten around hers and he leans in close so she can feel his breath on the back of her neck as a warning before he kisses behind her ear, trailing down to where her neck meets shoulder and she pulls away for a second, then turns so he can wrap his arms around her waist.

There is an intensity to his movements and a silent confidence that reminds her he was once Special Ops and by the time he gets her into bed, all one long, graceful dance, their jackets are gone, shoes long forgotten, and her shirt comes over her head before he leans her back onto the pillows. He straddles her hips, pulling off his own shirt, and freezes as her fingers reach up to trace the scars that cross his torso. Most are faded with age and she tries to find the story in his skin, recognizes some from reports she read outside the Oval Office, surrounded by boxes and boxes of the most amazing story never told.

With a grunt he interrupts her thoughts, lowering himself down to kiss her, slowly working his way down her torso with fingers and soft lips surrounded by stubble. He is so methodical that her hips arch off the bed before he even unzips her pants. She reaches down to brush across his shoulders, the top of his head, as he removes the last of her clothing and she fumbles in the drawer next to her, hands him a condom, while he strokes the crease above her thigh.

He doesn't ask her twice, rolling on the condom and entering her, letting her roll him onto his back so she can have that modicum of control as her life spins away from her grasp. When she can feel her climax building, her breath coming short and sharp, he pulls her down so his mouth can reach her breasts and reaches his other hand between them, crooking his thumb to give her something harder to rub against. His hips still when her muscles clench around him and he lets her ride it out before turning them again, laying her down and pumping into her until he reaches his own climax.

When it's done -- used condom tied and tossed and bedsheet haphazardly pulled over them -- Elizabeth lies on her back staring at the ceiling, unable to thank him for the distraction. His hand - long fingers and rough calluses -- is splayed across her stomach as though he can feel the wound deep inside -- the empty, pulsing ache shaped like a city, shaped like a dream.


End file.
